He's Gone
by Crazee Canadia
Summary: The weather probably lightened up where he was, with a few drops here and there hitting the granite that had his named perfectly carved into it. It could've sounded a lot like Luigi's tears as they hit the floor of his bedroom. Drip. Drip. Drip. oOo WaluigiXLuigi, don't like the pairing, then do not read or comment. Also includes character death. oOo


****Hurr durr, so it's been drizzling pleasantly in my area all day today, and as I type this author's note it's now raining like normal (I FEEL BRITISH *shot*). And that leads to this story... which, I just started writing after thinking, "Hmm, I like to use rain in my stories a lot, if I were a Pokemon I'd be a water type, oh hey, let's make this story sad like how the colors are outside!" And then I almost cried at the end of this even though it's probably not really that sad. **

**Oh, and I have math and English homework I gotta do. Yet I'm slacking. Meh...**

**Anyway, I warn you of WaluigiXLuigi, if you don't like the pairing then don't read it or comment about it. There's a back arrow to click if you are now disgusted. I also warn of character death, and implied other stuff. Okay, now read if you are still interested. ****

* * *

The rain finally decided it would fall at two in the morning, crashing into rooftops and trees as hard as it could. The volume it created atop of a tin roof awoke the only man that had been fitfully sleeping underneath, said male staring at the window with tired eyes and a disgusted sneer.

He stretched his legs out, sliding them onto the other side of the bed, jumping whenever he realized that the sheets were cold and unwelcoming. With a sniffle, he brought his legs back to his side before curling up into a ball underneath the blanket, glaring at the clock as the red numbers proudly displayed that it was too early in the morning to even think about being awake.

Yet, the weather didn't pay any attention to the man's silent pleas for silence. Instead it laughed, making more ruckus than it should have been making, picking on the depressed man like the bully it was.

With a grunt, the man threw the blanket off and shuffled to his cell phone, sitting on the dresser and still charging. He carelessly unhooked the phone and tapped the screen, navigating the bright, colorful menus until he found the number that he wanted so badly to dial. He selected it, finger hovering over the call option as he considered what he was doing. For one, he was wasting his precious sleeping time, and two, he probably wouldn't get an answer anyway.

He shook his head, sighed, and tapped the cancel button before dropping the phone on the dresser and stumbling back to his bed, flopping down on top of it and grunting at the sudden drop in temperature his body felt. He could feel his lungs shaking as he gasped, the base of his neck felt like someone was ticking the bone with their fingers, and his eyes ached from the chill that stung at them.

Eventually he managed to work himself back into slumber, though it was short and worthless. The rain drummed louder and louder, the deep gray-blue color of the room only making the man feel more and more exhausted every time he opened his eyes to see if the rain would go away.

Surprisingly, he was used to being annoyed at this time of night on most weekends. Never by rain, however, but the sound of the front door clicking as it was being unlocked, the squeak of the door hinges as it opened, the floorboards creaking as another man would enter with a devious grin on his face and his eyes glowing in lust.

Gingerly, the man ran his fingers against his face, reminiscing the feeling of being fully awakened by his guest's touch. An Italian curse word, a witty French comeback, a snort, a scoff, and a request for some time together would be exchanged in less than a minute. Longer fingers would lace in between his own, innocent Eskimo kisses came before nonsensical mutterings of romance, sugar coated insults, compliments of masculine beauty, terms of endearment, love building up and soon released with a snotty remark and a kiss between chapped and smoothed lips.

Obvious hickeys would be left on his neck, as he would leave scratch marks all over the other's back. His vocal cords hurt after countless minutes of soft whining, yelping, cussing, begging for another touch, wishing that what pain he felt was only temporary and would melt away quickly so he could enjoy what attention he was given. Clawing, kicking, slumping, he was never one to stay still, and he felt that it was a challenge for his partner to keep him down.

Nighttime would end quickly, and when the sun would rise he would usually have a moment of regret as he sat up, covering his bare skin with the blanket as he glanced down to his right with a sigh. He hated that face, the one the other made as he slept with content. That smile, those calmly closed eyes, he almost looked like as if he were reliving the previous hours in a dream.

Every single time, those eyes would shoot open, glazed over and laughing in triumph as he would glance back up at the other. Another French comment, another Italian insult, a request to bathe, and a few minutes of bickering over being alone in the bathroom quickly exchanged back and forth. Finally, he'd give into that charming smile, those large hands running up and down his arm in an endearing manner.

He'd never remember to bring his own toiletries, which forced the two to share soap and shampoo. He also liked to shower with him, though the shorter always demanded that he take his own shower by himself. Yet, the way he enjoyed his soap coated skin against his partner's made his bickering invalid. He had to be closer to the other at all times, relishing the slim, emancipated body under those hot droplets before he had to leave for other things.

Every second of the last encounter the two had played through his head, and when he remembered the last time he kissed him good-bye and closed the door his dream ended. The man's eyes widened as he saw it had been a complete hour since the last time he had glanced at the clock.

Still too early in the morning to even consider being awake, though. He cursed how short his dream was, yet how it felt like he hadn't wasted the night moping in bed.

Dangerous was the love, he suddenly remembered, dangerous. The other man was none other than the town's most loathed, and many people loudly voiced their wishes to put a bullet through his head.

Even though he had been told countless stories about why the man didn't deserve a thought, he was the object of his affections. He was easily impressed by his height and bravery, the way he could shrug off one's insults and continue on with his day. He felt sorry for him, always avoided by most people and spat upon by the idiotic children of the town.

A silent encounter behind a store, hugging the man's head to his chest after he had been brutally beaten up by a local rich man, was the first time they ever had a chance to speak. He took him home under dim street lamps, resting him on his couch, kissing his forehead and whispering that he would be fine, that his wounds and injuries would be nursed here in the comforts of a green themed house.

Days passed, the two felt a kindle of strong affection grow between them. All feelings were confirmed with an accidental hand brushing, a small kiss, and a grim confession from the taller, who doubted that his feelings would even be returned.

The man's train of thought was interrupted by his phone, still on top of his dresser, vibrating loudly against the dented wood. He mumbled, slowly rolling out of his bed and shuffling back over to the phone, picking it up and answering without as much as a glance at the number.

"_You're still up, aren't you, Luigi?"_

"No, I'm talking to you in my sleep."

"_Funny. I was just calling to see if you weren't still moping."_

"I am, you're just rubbing salt in the wound."

"_Look, Luigi, it was for everyone's sake -"_

"Nobody even bothered to get to _know_ him like I did, Mario."

"_Why would we have even bothered? He was responsible for-"_

"He wasn't responsible for _anything_ that happened to the town, not the graffiti, not the robberies, none of it. It was that snot of a rich man."

"_You call him a snot, still? I admire him for ridding the town of a pest!"_

"You sicken me, Mario. Admiring a murderer?"

"…_Luigi-"_

"I thought you were better than that, _fratello_."

"_Well, Luigi, what can I do? It couldn't have been stopped anyway."_

"It could have if you didn't chase him off."

"_He could've killed _you_ in your sleep!"_

"He was a good man, Mario! He was a good man! Everyone judged him! He became the scapegoat for everything that happened! And need I emphasize how that made me feel bad for him?"

"_Luigi-"_

"He stands up for himself _one_ time! _One time!_"

"_Y-yes, I know-"_

"And that idiot had to overreact! Mario, don't you understand? He did _nothing_ other than choose to live here, nothing else!"

"_He chose to hang out with some very idiotic friends, that's for sure."_

"Don't talk about him like you know his every thought, Mario. That 'friend' of his was none other than that rich bastard wanting someone to take the blame for all of the crimes _he_ did. That's all I've got to say, and now I'm going to hang up before I get angrier than I already am."

Luigi ended the call, dropping his phone on the floor before leaning against the wall. He let out a shaky sob, sliding down the wall while covering his face.

The sight of his beloved, losing conscious in the middle of the street with crimson lines falling down the side of his head, made him feel sick. He could still remember grabbing the man, shaking him, screaming, demanding someone call for an ambulance, and the scent of burning gas as an SUV sped away just as quickly as it had appeared.

It wasn't enough that the man responsible was already in jail for who knew how long, nor was it enough being told that he was happy wherever he went. Luigi felt that it was wrong, all wrong, wrong that he couldn't enjoy the rain with the man he wanted beside him at that very moment.

_Maybe the rain wasn't so loud where he was sleeping._

_Maybe it was silenced by the thick dirt that served as his roof. _

_The weather probably lightened up where he was, with a few drops here and there hitting the granite that had his named perfectly carved into it._

_It could've sounded a lot like Luigi's tears as they hit the floor of his bedroom._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._


End file.
